


when he sees me

by Ellieb3an, newamsterdam



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: And Many Complications, Canon Compliant, Comedy of Errors, Friends to Lovers, Identity Swap, Insofar as an Outright Lie is also Miscommunication, M/M, Miscommunication, Mutual Pining, Rivals to Lovers, Romantic Comedy, Teenage Drama, twin swap
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-15
Updated: 2020-09-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:27:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26470381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ellieb3an/pseuds/Ellieb3an, https://archiveofourown.org/users/newamsterdam/pseuds/newamsterdam
Summary: It wasn’t even meant to be a lie, really. Just a quick swap for a day, and not even Atsumu’s idea! But one day becomes two, and a casual swap becomes… a more deliberate misunderstanding.But it’ll be fine. As long as Sakusa never finds out.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 40
Kudos: 245





	when he sees me

No matter what his mother says, Kiyoomi isn’t here to make friends. 

He doesn’t get why it bothers people so much. Whenever his mother is around, she asks him why he spends so much time by himself. His elder sister and brother poke fun at him in what they think is an affectionate way, wondering why he never has friends over. His father, when prompted, asks if his grades and health are well. Since they are, he doesn’t make a big deal out of the rest of it. 

But when his mother signs the forms for an elite summer volleyball camp, she smiles and says, “This will be a good place for you to make friends, Kiyoomi.”

He doesn’t bother to tell her that she’s wrong, and especially that he doesn’t want to make any new friends. Komori will be there, too, so he’ll have someone to sit with for meals and hang around so he doesn’t stick out as a loner. Beyond that, the only thing he cares about is if the others at camp will be serious about volleyball, if he can learn anything new from them, if anyone will manage to impress him.

Only a few months ago, he’d met Ushijima Wakatoshi at a middle school tournament. Everything about Wakatoshi-kun is impressive, from his serve to his spikes to his thorough after-match stretches. Kiyoomi isn’t foolish enough to think that this camp will host anyone more impressive, or even close. But there’s always a chance.

He’s standing on one side of the court, arms crossed over his chest since he isn’t wearing a jacket to hide his hands in. 

“Come on,” Komori says, nudging him with an elbow. “Everyone’s introducing themselves before the coaches get here.”

Kiyoomi looks back at Komori, his expression more incredulous than chastising. 

“Right,” Komori sighs, shaking his head. “Don’t blame me if you can’t remember anyone’s name!”

Kiyoomi is content on his solitary side of the court after Komori jogs off. He breathes in the clean scent of the court, the gym doors open to let sunlight stream in. He’s itching to go through his warm-ups, to hit as many receives as he can, to finally master the jump serve that’s led to him taking more than a few volleyballs to the face over the past few weeks. 

“Huh. Too good for the rest of us, are ya?” 

Kiyoomi’s peaceful vision of a clean court is clouded, and then entirely covered, by the boy who’s come to stand before him. He’s wearing a white t-shirt and red shorts, his black hair brushed to one side but making a valiant effort to fall back the other way. He’s got a volleyball held against one hip, his eyebrow arched in question. 

Kiyoomi blinks, stifling a sigh. People always think that. How he treats other people— or how he doesn’t treat them— has nothing to do with thinking he’s better than them. He’s just uninterested. Why doesn’t anyone understand that?

“No,” he says plainly. He turns to move away, but the other boy very quickly puts himself back in Kiyoomi’s line of vision.

Brow furrowed, the boy continues, “So what, then? Ya shy?” 

Another common, and incorrect, assumption. Kiyoomi says, terser, “ _ No _ .”

The intruder takes a step back, bounces the volleyball once against the court and catches it again, spinning in between his palms. “Don’t like talking?”

“If I have something worth saying, or someone worth talking to, no.” 

Most people don’t last this long unless they have to. Adults, teachers and doctors and family friends, usually hang on a bit longer out of some misplaced earnestness. And Kiyoomi is usually more polite with them, because he has no reason not to be. But this guy? Why’s he bothering? There’s a dozen other boys in the court he could be talking to. Komori would probably love to make another new friend. 

The intruder looks a bit offended, then turns his lips downward into an exaggerated frown. “How’d ya even know if I’m worth talking to? You haven’t even tried yet.” 

Kiyoomi lifts both his brows, drops his arms don’t to his sides. “You started it,” he says, because that should explain everything.

The intruder lifts his chin and laughs. “I did, didn’t I. So now I gotta prove I’m worth yer time? You sure got some standards.”

Kiyoomi shrugs. Again, this guy’s the one who started it.

“What’s yer name, anyway?” 

He’s lasted this long, so Kiyoomi cuts him a break. “Sakusa Kiyoomi.”

“Well, Sakusa Kiyoomi, hope your volleyball lives up to your attitude.”

Kiyoomi rolls his eyes, because, again— it’s not an attitude. It’s just the way he is. And either way, his volleyball  _ does _ live up to it. 

The intruder extends a hand. “I’m Miya Osamu.”

Kiyoomi is, under no circumstances, going to shake Miya Osamu’s hand. But he gives him a nod. “I hope your volleyball lives up to your confidence.”

Miya Osamu laughs again, and Kiyoomi isn’t exactly sorry that he’s made it this far.

***

Though he still won’t admit to arrogance, Kiyoomi will concede that he underestimated this camp. The other players are good, really good, and Kiyoomi loses himself so much in focusing on keeping up in drills and practice games that he loses track of time. He’s still at the top of the pack, but he has to work for it, and that necessary effort puts him in a good mood. 

No one in their group can match Komori for receives, with Kiyoomi coming in a close second. Kiyoomi’s spikes put him at the top of the group, except when Miya Osamu steps up to hit off one of Komori’s sets.

There’s a noticeable intake of breath as Miya jumps, then a deafening thud as his hand slams into the volleyball. Time slows, in that moment, the ball bending out of its spherical shape as it takes on the velocity of Miya’s spike. 

Middle school kids aren’t supposed to be that strong— at least, not  _ normal _ middle school kids.

Maybe it’s that thought that attracts Kiyoomi like a magnetic pull. He’s sidestepping before he realizes it, then taking a run to reach the ball. He extends his hands, dives, and—

Misses the ball entirely, as it lands with a thud against the court next to Kiyoomi’s feet before bouncing off to hit the opposite wall. 

Kiyoomi grimaces, straightening up. 

On the other side of the net, Miya Osamu looks at him with fire blazing in his eyes. His lips curl, but then he straightens out his expression and pumps his fist, instead. 

Kiyoomi isn’t fooled. There’s a smugness in Miya that he’s doing his best to mask. He’d accused Kiyoomi of arrogance, but he clearly thinks highly of himself, too. 

***

His efforts to master volleyball aren’t for anyone else’s benefit. He hasn’t spent weeks and weeks on his jump serve so that the other players will ooh and ahh at him, but Kiyoomi does have to admit that the way they stare is a little satisfying. 

On the back line of the court, Kiyoomi takes a deep breath before tossing the ball. As he jumps up, he sees Miya across the net and thinks,  _ Watch this _ .

Maybe that’s his mistake, because although Kiyoomi’s been practicing this form without rest, he still hasn’t mastered it. His jump is good, his toss is good, his run up is just fine. But as his hand strikes the ball and his eyes meet Miya’s, he knows he hasn’t gotten it right. 

The ball falls at entirely the wrong angle, hitting the floor on Kiyoomi’s side of the court, right by the net. If it had gone just a little longer, it would’ve been a pain to receive. 

Kiyoomi frowns, even as the coach steps forward to explain what he did well and what he can improve. The coach smiles at him, saying he’s much further along that most players his age. 

Kiyoomi nods as politely as he can, then goes to take his place in the receiving position. 

Miya Osamu steps up to the other side of the net. He’s spinning the ball between his palms, outline of his tongue poking out against his cheek. His hair has flopped almost entirely to one side, the opposite of where it’d been this morning. He looks around the court, at all the other players, then dips his head down and smiles quietly. 

He’s planning something, Kiyoomi thinks. 

The thought comes a second too late, because in the time Kiyoomi takes to look back at Miya, he’s already in the air. He jumps so high the backs of his heels are nearly touching his butt as he bends in mid-air. Just like when Miya spiked, a hushed awe comes over the group. 

Oh no, Kiyoomi thinks. This isn’t how this is going to go. 

He may not have been gunning for the spot as most impressive player or best server, but like hell he’s going to let Miya come up and snatch both titles without any pushback. 

Kiyoomi moves a split-second before Miya hits the ball over the net. The power of his serve is incredible, just as forceful as his spike was. But Kiyoomi’s reflexes are well-honed, and this time he makes it into the right position in time. 

The problem is, there’s very little he can do to prepare for the speed and strength of Miya’s serve. Kiyoomi bends his knees and lunges forward, arms extended to receive the serve. It comes closer, closer, and he thinks he’s in exactly the right spot.

The world goes dark as pain erupts through his face, radiating outward from his nose.

***

He’s lying on his back on the court, and a red-faced Miya is standing over him. Miya’s eyes are wide, bright like lamp-light, and his mouth is pulled into a perfect O. 

“You served the ball right into my  _ face _ ,” Kiyoomi grits out, lifting a hand to press gingerly at his nose. It doesn’t feel broken, and there’s no blood. That’s a relief. He might really freak out if he started bleeding all over the court. 

Miya purses his lips together, then mutters, “I think it’s more like ya used yer face to receive my spike.”

“Maybe I just overestimated you,” Kiyoomi says, annoyance and pain lacing his voice with something harsh. “I thought you were aiming for inside the court, not out of bounds.”

Miya’s face colors, and he bites back, “It might’ve been in bounds! We’ll never know ’cause yer face got in the way!”

“Are you seriously trying to blame me because  _ you _ hit me with the ball?” 

Kiyoomi can’t believe this. He pulls himself up to a seated position, finally looks past Miya to see Coach and Komori nearby, along with the rest of the players a little further off. How embarrassing. “I’m fine,” he says to them, shooting a pointed glare at Miya.

“What,” Miya mutters, scuffing his toe against the court.

“You didn’t even try to help me up, and you’re the one who hit me,” Kiyoomi informs him blandly. 

Miya pulls his lips apart with an audible smack. “Oh c’mon, ya wouldn’t even shake my hand earlier! Yer not gonna make me the asshole for this.”

Kiyoomi pushes himself up and resists the urge to roll his eyes. True, he probably wouldn’t have accepted a hand up even if Miya had offered it. But it’s the principle of the thing, isn’t it?

“One, you hit me in the face. Two, you just stood there and stared instead of helping me up.” Kiyoomi shakes his head. “Is this what was supposed to impress me?”

Behind Miya, Komori chokes on a laugh and makes a chopping motion across his neck. “Sakusa,” he groans, “that’s not  _ nice _ .” 

His head is still pounding, and Kiyoomi really doesn’t care about being nice. He lifts his brows at Miya, as thought to say,  _ Well? _

“He started it,” he says aloud, to Komori. 

***

“Hey.”

Kiyoomi looks from where he’s knelt down to tie his shoes, only to see Miya Osamu standing over him. Again. What is this guy’s problem? 

Kiyoomi straightens up, gives Miya a glancing nod. 

Miya’s face goes through a rapid series of expressions— offended, upset, flat. He huffs out a breath, visibly loosening the muscles of his face. The whole spectacle reminds Kiyoomi of noodles being put into a simmering pot of water; going limp all at once, when the alternative is to crack into brittle halves.

“I just wanna talk to ya, but yer not making it very easy,” Miya complains, crossing his arms over his chest. 

“You’ve been talking at me without much trouble all day.” Kiyoomi breathes this out with an air of resignation. Komori sticks around because he’s Kiyoomi’s cousin, because they’re used to each other, because in that familiarity they’ve found things to like about each other. But even the more immediate members of Kiyoomi’s family don’t put up with him for this long without getting frustrated. He has no idea what’s keeping Miya going.

“Talking  _ at _ ya and talking  _ to _ ya are different things,” Miya mutters, rolling his eyes. “And people say  _ I’m _ the one who’s bad at this.”

Kiyoomi looks back at him, unable to hide his surprise. All day, Miya has been utterly at ease with the other boys, with the coach. Kiyoomi suspects that Miya keeps pestering him only because Kiyoomi didn’t fall into an easy, if superficial, camaraderie with Miya like everyone else. 

Miya coughs, wiggling his jaw from side to side like he’s trying to reset himself. “I mean, yer treating me like I’m some big jerk, and I’m not! I  _ know _ big jerks, is what I meant. I  _ know _ someone who’s worse at this stuff that you are, probably.”

Kiyoomi doesn’t like thinking of himself as bad at anything. There are things that capture his attention and effort, and things that don’t. People generally don’t, but Miya keeps presenting himself like a challenge. And Kiyoomi can’t resist a challenge, even when he’s being so openly baited. 

Miya had been trying to be nice and friendly this morning, hadn’t he? Maybe Kiyoomi had been too harsh on him. 

“I never said you were a big jerk,” Kiyoomi says. 

“But yer thinkin’ it,” Miya counters. “It’s written all over yer face!”

Kiyoomi resists the urge to roll his eyes. “This is just what my face is like.” 

“So you like me, then?” Miya asks, voice carefully casual. 

“Don’t get carried away.” Kiyoomi doesn’t often like people. He wonders if it’s just not his nature. In certain moments, he can admit that it makes him lonely. He’s lucky to have Komori, really. But he’s not sure how to change to let more people in, and is unsure if he even really wants to. 

It’s not that Kiyoomi likes Miya— he doesn’t like just anyone, and Miya did nail him in the face with a volleyball only a few hours ago. But there is something admirable about the way he keeps trying, the way he lets all his emotions dance across his face, and most of all, the power behind that serve. 

Miya laughs, and moves as though to clap Kiyoomi on the back. Kiyoomi side-steps just as Miya pulls his hand back, thinking better of the motion. 

“I’ll keep trying,” Miya says, as though it’s the simplest thing in the world. 

Kiyoomi’s not sure of the feeling that strikes him at that moment, and he doesn’t give himself too long to dwell on it. Instead he shrugs. It’s Miya’s choice. 

“It’s not like anyone else here is giving me much of a challenge,” Miya continues, casually. He winks when he catches Kiyoomi staring. 

He’s not sure if Miya is referring to his personality or his volleyball, and therefore whether this is an insult or a compliment. 

“Sakusa!” Komori is calling out to him from the other side of the court, hands cupped around his mouth so that his voice carries. “C’mon, let’s go get some dinner before the cafeteria gets crowded!”

“Coming,” Kiyoomi calls back.

Miya’s still standing beside him, and now he gives Kiyoomi a betrayed look. “Sakusa-kun, you have a friend? Now I feel less special.” 

This time, Kiyoomi gives Miya his most withering stare. “You’re not my friend.” (Yet. Maybe.) “And Komori’s my cousin.” 

Komori is also his friend, but Kiyoomi does not know if that’d be the case if they weren’t cousins. At least, they wouldn’t have been pushed to spend time together until they both discovered a love of volleyball. And if Komori didn’t at least know that he and Kiyoomi were related, would he have stuck around this long? 

Miya lets out a breath through his teeth, laughing a little. “And he all nicely asks ya to come for dinner? Wish he’d give my brother some lessons.”

It makes sense that Miya has a brother, Kiyoomi thinks. He acts like someone who’s grown up around others his age, and he doesn’t give the word any respect— not like Kiyoomi has to, when he refers to his much-older siblings. 

“What would you brother do?” he asks, unable to help himself. 

Miya snorts. “Probably come find me after dinner was all gone, just to gloat about it.” He grinds his teeth, like he’s remembering a fight he’s had often. “Or save me a bowl just to eat it in front of me.”

Kiyoomi allows himself a quiet huff of a laugh. “He sounds worse than you.”

Miya throws his hands in the air in vindication. “Yes, thank you! No one ever believes me— I mean, yeah. I’m the nice one.”

Kiyoomi shakes his head. “Neutral, at best.”

Miya sticks out his tongue, and Kiyoomi pushes his way past him. Komori is waiting for him by the gym door, a shocked expression on his face. 

_ You made a friend? _ Komori mouths, caught between awe and joy. 

Kiyoomi shakes his head in two quick, violent jerks. The last thing he needs is Miya seeing, or hearing, Komori’s commentary. 

“Neutral is better than a big jerk,” Miya calls after him, laughing again.

It’s like he’s laughing at himself, and not at Kiyoomi. It’s a nicer laugh than Kiyoomi would’ve expected. 

Maybe that decides him, because he waits for Miya to catch up so he can mention something to him.

***

“Why are you parting it that way again?” 

Atsumu continues fussing with his hair but spares a glance through the mirror at Osamu, who has stopped short behind him on the way to the toilets. It must be a strange sight, considering Osamu is usually the earlier riser, having to drag Atsumu out of bed when he’d sooner sleep all morning. Today, though, he wears a bemused frown as he rubs sleep out of his eyes and discovers Atsumu already dressed and styling his hair for the day. 

Atsumu’s tongue sticks out between his teeth as he gets the last piece of hair at the front to stick the right (wrong) direction with a bit of gel. “So they still think I’m you? Duh.”

“We were only supposed to swap one day.” Osamu eyes him suspiciously. “Aren’t ya gonna go back to yer own group? I thought you wanted to play with Aran.”

He has a point. That had been his plan originally, especially as mad as he was when he lost their competition to determine who got to be in Aran’s group. (Atsumu was assigned there fair and square by the coaches, after all. He shouldn’t have had to relinquish his spot to Osamu over a video game, even if he did agree to their wager!) 

But on the other hand…

_ “I like to get to the gym early to work on serves,” Sakusa said. _

Atsumu shrugs. “I’m playing well with the other group. ’Sides, it’ll just be a pain to learn a buncha new names I’m already supposed to know.”

“This is why everyone thinks yer a jerk, y’know.” 

Whatever. Osamu should be thanking him for letting him play with Aran again, but Atsumu knows better than to expect that. He sticks his tongue out at him, like any mature 14-year-old would. “Well, yer the jerk today.”

Osamu snorts. “Yeah, only ’cause I’m being  _ you _ .” 

He shoves Atsumu’s head, and Atsumu squawks at the disrespect. When he throws a punch for Osamu’s shoulder, Osamu dodges it as he rolls his eyes and disappears down the line of toilet stalls. 

“Don’t go ruinin’ my setter reputation with shitty sets,” Atsumu calls after him while making sure his hair isn’t too badly messed up. It clearly hates being combed over this direction, but there’s not much more he can do for it. 

“Don’t go ruinin’ mine as the better player.”

Atsumu growls but bites back a response in favor of gathering his bag and sneaking off before Osamu can ask where he’s headed.

***

Sakusa’s shoes squeak against the court floor a fraction of a second before his jump serve hits Atsumu’s outstretched forearms and deflects out of bounds. His lips purse in a frustrated pout, mild but obvious enough as he scrutinizes the spot where the ball bounced. 

“Still not getting enough power behind it,” he determines. 

Atsumu retrieves the ball and spins it between his own hands as he steps up to the line on his side of the net. “That spin you put on it makes it tough to control with a receive though,” he says with a wry grin while watching Sakusa shake out and fold his wrist with scary flexibility. 

No wonder he has such a sick backspin on it. It’s a neat little effect in his spikes too that has Atsumu itching to set for him. 

Sakusa raises a brow. “Well? Let’s see what you’ve got, Miya.”

Atsumu bounces the ball against the ground a few times, running through the steps of his serve in his head. It’s still a bit new to him, something he’s working on making second nature after learning it to look cool like Aran, but it takes a lot of concentration to get it right.

He can hear Osamu in his ear taunting him for demanding total silence at practice.  _ Good luck gettin’ everyone at a match to shut up just so you can get in the zone. _ But Sakusa doesn’t seem particularly interested in shouting out distractions just to mess with him like his stupid brother. 

Plus, Atsumu definitely has another thing in his favor today: his serves hit harder than Sakusa’s do. 

Sakusa tilts his head to one side as if to say ‘any day now,’ so Atsumu takes a deep breath and tosses the ball up. He leaps and slams it as hard as he can, but then Sakusa doesn’t even attempt a receive as he watches it land out of bounds past the back line. 

Sakusa watches it bounce and roll away with a disappointed expression. “Guess you’re not as impressive as I initially thought.”

Atsumu resists the urge to pull at his hair— _ Osamu wouldn’t do that _ —but clicks his tongue in frustration. “I’m just gettin’ warmed up is all.”

“Being a slow starter is nothing to brag about,” Sakusa deadpans as he stoops to grab the ball. “You’ll be giving away too many points before you can score a service ace.” His dark eyes flick over Atsumu. “If you  _ can _ manage one, that is.”

“Got an ace offa ya, didn’t I?” 

“That wasn’t even in a practice match. Besides, I’ve been training to receive a far more intimidating serve than yours.” Sakusa’s curls fall in his face a little as he stands. “I’ll be ready for you next time.”

Atsumu chews the inside of his cheek and wonders if that’s a  _ hypothetical  _ intimidating serve or a very specific one.  _ Who else is Sakusa Kiyoomi measuring himself up against? _ The thought settles like a lead weight in his stomach.

“Let’s see ya do one better, then,” he says, trying to keep his tone as neutral as possible, because Osamu wouldn’t be quick to rise to bait like that (not unless Atsumu himself dangled it). 

Atsumu  _ knows _ he’s already done one better than him, but Sakusa doesn’t bother to point that out, instead letting his serves speak for themselves. 

He’s a consistent pain-in-the-ass this morning, Atsumu will give him that as he gets his arms under the next serve to bump it, only for it to fly off in an unexpected direction again. Off his contact, it lands outside the court, but in a spot where, had he had a team beside him, someone else could have easily kept it in play. 

Sakusa’s lips twitch almost imperceptibly—a smile?—but there’s pride in the glint of his eyes—a  _ smug _ smile, then.

Atsumu points his thumb off to the side where the ball ricocheted. “Samu could have gotten it there,” he feels compelled to say.

Sakusa frowns in confusion and Atsumu can feel his own cheeks burn as he realizes his mistake. “My brother,  _ Tsumu _ , could have set that from there, easy. It… uh… it wouldn’t have been out.”

Sakusa just looks at him like he’s grown a second head, which is fair enough because Atsumu  _ feels _ a bit like he’s got two heads anyway while trying to be less himself and more Osamu. 

It’s harder to do when he can’t step back and blend in with the group like practice yesterday.

Atsumu runs down the ball that rolled off into the far corner of the gymnasium and takes the moment without Sakusa’s eyes boring into him to collect himself. Osamu doesn’t get worked up over sounding stupid (no, Osamu is just perfectly content  _ being _ stupid).

When he turns back, he just focuses on the ball in his hands and approaches his line. Sakusa assumes a defensive stance on the other side of the net—knees bent, hands out in front of him, eyes wide with such intense focus that Atsumu feels a thrill in recognizing another player who never goes halfway with anything, even when it’s only them squeezing in some extra practice.

_ I’m yer worthy opponent, Omi-kun, and I’ll deliver you a serve that knocks the socks offa ya. _ Atsumu tosses the ball higher, leaps farther, hits harder, and at the apex of his jump, as the ball makes contact with his palm in that satisfying way that tells him it’s going to be good, he stares right back into Sakusa’s eyes.  _ Watch me. _

When the ball overpowers Sakusa’s well-positioned receive and goes flying off his arms into the back wall with a loud thud, he looks at Atsumu with narrowed eyes and that hint of a smile creeping back up. “Let’s go again.”

***

Their private practice winds down as the other boys in their group start to filter into the gym. Sakusa’s cousin Komori is among the first of them, with wide eyes and his mouth forming a little ‘o’ shape as he locates Sakusa and Atsumu on the far side of the room. He stops near the entrance, shifting hesitantly from one foot to the other, until Sakusa notices his presence and aborts the serve he was about to send Atsumu’s way.

Komori takes this as a cue to jog over to them, and it seems Atsumu will have to wait until group practice to see what Sakusa still has in store for him. Currently, they sit at 9-8 in Sakusa’s favor on service aces, but Atsumu is eager to close that gap now that he thinks he’s gotten some grasp on that nasty spin Sakusa puts on the ball.

“Have you two been here this whole time?” Komori asks. “You missed breakfast.”

“Jump serve warmups. And I ate before I came here.”

Sakusa’s eyes shift to Atsumu.  _ We’ll continue this later _ , they seem to say, and Atsumu gives him a nod before taking his leave.

He settles back in with the larger group of boys, fitting in while he adopts Osamu’s mellow attitude. It’s not too difficult, he finds for a second day. He keeps most of his talking to responses instead of his usual instigating, and people seem to get on more easily with him as Osamu. It probably helps that he’s not a setter here, so it’s not up to him to bring everyone else up to his standards anyway. 

There are three other setters in their camp group, all of them pretty good for middle schoolers—they have to be to have gotten into this camp, after all—but nowhere near Atsumu’s skill level. And Atsumu is good enough that he can mentally tear apart their sets while adjusting to deliver powerful spikes. He keeps it to himself, because Osamu is only a disrespectful jerk to him, but it does gnaw away at him a little bit each time.

Especially when they’re playing some three-on-three matches and he’s forced to watch one boring, textbook set after the next go Sakusa’s way. There’s an elegance to the way Sakusa plays volleyball—efficiency and finesse you just don’t see in kids their age—and it’s absolutely wasted on such safe tosses. 

Atsumu stands at the sidelines waiting for his own team of three to rotate in for whichever loses the current set. His fingers twitch anxiously at the need to get under the ball after witnessing a play that scores based on Sakusa’s superior skills and nothing to do with the kid setting to him.  _ I woulda sent that wider and then his cut shot coulda been even sharper. _

Four points later, and Atsumu finds himself standing opposite Sakusa on the court again. 

“I’ll serve first,” he tells his teammates when the ball is tossed their way to start the match, and of course nobody disagrees with one of the only kids who has a solid jump serve.

Sakusa is ready for him, but Atsumu sends him his best serve yet today. 

There’s no containing the satisfied grin when he evens their score.

***

The boys are spread out doing various drills when a whistle cuts through the cacophony of bouncing volleyballs, squeaking shoes, and bodies diving against the floor to grab their attention. 

“Round it up!” Coach Mikoshiba calls, waving them all in. 

Atsumu lifts himself up out of his dive and jogs over with the rest of the group. He notices Sakusa hanging back a little bit away from the rest and considers joining him, but Sakusa glances his way out of the corner of narrowed eyes and pointedly stares back ahead at the coach.

_ Still sour that I pulled ahead of him in our little service ace competition, then,  _ Atsumu notes with amusement. 

Oh well. Now is not really the time to strike up a conversation, anyway.

“I’m seeing a lot of good work out there today,” Coach says once everyone has gathered. “We’ll break here for lunch. This afternoon, we’re playing a few practice sets against the Gym 1 group. We’ve split you into three teams that we think will fit best when you’re playing against the other boys, so check the list on the door on your way out. Meet back with your team at Gym 1 in an hour.”

Everyone crowds around the list, and Atsumu is one of the last to check but finds his team quickly enough. 

_ Team A _

_ Middle Blockers: Tajima and Mihashi _

_ Outside Hitters: Sakusa and Shiina _

_ Opposite Hitter: Miya _

_ Libero: Komori _

_ Setter: Kominato _

Atsumu clicks his tongue against his teeth as he recognizes the name of the setter who was too afraid earlier to toss a nice wide set to Sakusa.  _ Of course  _ he has to suffer through watching Sakusa paired up with that setter again and knowing he could do it ten times better. And up close, too. 

Sakusa is long gone before he has the chance to say anything about being teamed up, so Atsumu makes his way toward the cafeteria to catch Osamu instead.

The other gym must’ve let everyone out earlier because he finds him outside, sitting under a tree and opening a double popsicle, the remains of his lunch already set aside. Atsumu comes to stand beside him. 

“One of those for me?”

Osamu doesn’t look up as he takes one massive bite out of the top of both sides. “Nope.”

“Pig.”

Osamu shrugs. “I’m playin’ setter in the matches after lunch,” he announces mildly, as if it’s not something that’s supposed to get under Atsumu’s skin when it’s  _ absolutely  _ intended to. “Aran’s on my team too. How’s yer side of the swap goin’ for ya?”

Atsumu crosses his arms over his chest. “Playin’ outside hitter. Our team’s setter is fine...  _ boring _ .”

“Sounds lame,” Osamu says, taking another bite out of his popsicle. He finally looks up at Atsumu suspiciously. “Still tryin’ to figure out what’s in it for you.”

“Whaddya mean?”

“Yer gonna spike for a setter ya don’t even like and let me leave the impression for yer setting instead,” Osamu says, sounding faintly exasperated, “because what? You didn’t wanna learn some new names?”

The thought of Sakusa’s sick serves and precise spikes comes to mind, but Atsumu feels embarrassed to admit that it’s another player’s skills that have his attention.

“Maybe I just felt like being nice and making ya look good,” he says loftily. “Just being a good big brother, didja think of that?”

Osamu looks appalled at the suggestion. “Gross. Never. Even if being older by seven minutes  _ counted _ , you’d still be the worst big brother.”

Atsumu scoffs. “So ungrateful. See if I do anything nice for ya ever again.” He turns on his heel with a lazy wave over his shoulder as he heads for the cafeteria. “I’m gonna go grab my lunch since someone didn’t bother to wait for me.”

“Hope ya enjoy gettin’ yer butts kicked by our team,  _ Samu _ ,” Osamu calls after him, his voice a perfect imitation of Atsumu’s singsong teasing tone. “I won’t go easy on ya just ’cause yer my baby brother.”

There’s a volleyball lying on the ground nearby—probably one of the other boys brought it out to mess around with and forgot it. Atsumu thinks about all the times he’s ever just been minding his own business and Osamu saw fit to chuck a ball at his head or push him off the couch or flick things at him.

He picks it up and throws, because  _ payback’s a bitch _ .

Unfortunately, at the moment Osamu shouts about the ball making contact with the side of his head, Atsumu notices Sakusa and Komori are standing in the doorway of the cafeteria watching them.

“Sakusa-kun, Komori-kun,” he says sheepishly. “Uh, how much of that didja just see?”

Sakusa stares down at him with an eyebrow raised, his dark eyes scrutinizing him the way he did his own serves earlier.

But when he says, “Enough,” Atsumu swears he hears a hint of amusement in his voice.

***

Atsumu speeds through his lunch, exchanging small bits of conversation with Shiina and Tajima and saying hello to Aran, but then he excuses himself to go back to the gym early, expecting that’s where Sakusa has gone already. 

Sure enough, he and Komori are both there doing their stretches, so Atsumu drops his bag to the side and joins them with a wave. 

“You ate quickly,” Komori says while folding over his right leg.

“Yeah, I wanted to get a head start on warming up for our matches.”

Komori nods. “Kiyoomi too. So... I guess that’s your brother in the other group? Think we’ll get to play against him?”

“Yeah, that’s Atsumu,” he confirms. “And I hope so. I’m lookin’ forward to knockin’ him down a peg. He’s the best setter here this weekend, but he’s a big jerk.”

“He seems even cockier than you are,” Sakusa says. “Must be irritating.”

Komori laughs. “Yeah, he definitely left an impression.”

_ Ouch. _ So apparently Atsumu—or Osamu’s very accurate impersonation of Atsumu—is not someone Sakusa cares to get along with. He tries not to sulk. “We did already establish that I’m the nice one.”

Sakusa scoffs lightly and places the tops of his hands on the ground, folding his weird flexible wrists almost all the way in as he leans backward to stretch them. “I wouldn’t say that, considering you have a habit of hitting people in the head with volleyballs.”

“Those things don’t count if it’s yer annoying brother, y’know. And c’mon! I thought we moved past that and made friends already?”

“You remember things differently than I do.” But he doesn’t sound entirely unfriendly, so Atsumu counts it as a win. 

***

Aran has known the Miya twins for a few years now, and they’ve always been pretty ridiculous. In their best moments, they can be rude and dumb and obnoxiously competitive, and in their worst, they could be merciless jerks to each other. But they’ve never been as baffling before as they are this weekend.

Aran stands on one side of a net with a team made up of kids he’s just met and Miya Atsumu. Or the twin that’s  _ supposed  _ to be Miya Atsumu, anyway, as if either of the twins could pull off pretending to be the other in front of him. 

He can’t imagine  _ why _ they would want to swap places or go through the trouble of taming their hair the opposite direction or playing each other’s positions. He especially doesn’t get it now that he’s playing a match with Osamu as his setter and Atsumu standing opposite them, fidgeting every play with the need to step in for a setter who isn’t even close to his level.

The score is 15-15, and “Atsumu” is up to serve. He has a jump serve that’s nearly as good as the real Atsumu’s—learned a bit more easily and only outpaced by the fact that Atsumu works twice as hard on his. This time it doesn’t earn him a service ace though. There’s a decent amount of power behind it and a trajectory for just inside the court boundary, but the other team’s setter gets under the ball just in time. It rebounds off to the right, farther out than ideal, and it gives “Osamu” the chance he’s been dying for all match.

“Sakusa-kun!” he calls as he runs into position, and a tall, lanky boy with curly black hair—the same one who has been scoring spikes over the net at annoyingly tricky angles all match—makes the run up in response.

Atsumu’s tongue pokes out between his teeth, and his eyes are wide with childish excitement as he catches the ball at his fingertips to toss it backward to the left side where there’s only one blocker in his spiker’s path. 

Aran has seen enough of Atsumu’s bold sets to hurry over and join the block, but it’s not enough when a flick of Sakusa’s wrist sends the ball through an opening to deliver a sharp line shot that Osamu behind them doesn’t manage to receive.

The kid hardly shows a reaction to his own scored point, but Atsumu looks plenty self-satisfied as if he’d done it himself. 

...Only, he’s got his eye on Sakusa instead of sending a smug look Osamu’s way as he normally would have.

***

Atsumu is going to make them late. They have a train to catch if they’re going to get back home tonight, but he leaves Aran and Osamu waiting at the gates as he runs back into the school for something he forgot.

“I say we just leave him,” Osamu suggests, munching on some melon pan he pulled from his bag (after telling Atsumu no, he didn’t have any snacks on him). “With any luck, he’ll never find his way back home.”

That  _ would _ be some luck to only return with one Miya, wouldn’t it? Of course, their parents only let them travel here by train because they trusted Aran more than either of their own boys to make sure they didn’t get into trouble. So Aran is stuck with both of them.

He sighs and sets his bag down. “I’ll get him.”

At least he doesn’t have to go far. Atsumu stands just outside the gym doors with that Sakusa kid—with a mask now obscuring half of his face but still recognizable by his hair. It’s a brief exchange, both boys with phones in hand, presumably exchanging numbers and parting words, before heading off in their different directions. 

“Keep in touch, Sakusa-kun!” Atsumu calls over his shoulder.

Sakusa gives him a silent wave, and Atsumu looks genuinely pleased by it. Then he notices Aran waiting and offers a sheepish laugh.

“C’mon, Aran-kun, we don’t wanna be late!” he says, jogging past Aran toward the exit.

“And  _ who’s _ makin’ us late?!”

Aran spares a glance behind him before he chases Atsumu down. Sakusa has stopped, ignoring the brown-haired boy beside him and watching curiously as Atsumu disappears down the hall.

Aran shakes his head.

Miya Atsumu making actual friends at a volleyball camp… Who could have seen that coming? 

**Author's Note:**

> find us on twitter: [ellieb3an](https://twitter.com/3llieb3an) | [newamsterdam](https://twitter.com/newamsterdame)


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